


Season 1 Episode 9 - Trou Normand

by PaleGlimmer



Series: Hannibal Smut Companion [9]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Face Slapping, Fight as Foreplay, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season 1, c-word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 05:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaleGlimmer/pseuds/PaleGlimmer
Summary: Will finds out that Abigail Hobbs killed Nick Boyle. Hannibal pumps up the dramatics. Sexual shenanigans ensue.





	Season 1 Episode 9 - Trou Normand

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my project **Hannibal Smut Companion** : a little piece of smut set in/around each episode. Every TV episode resets events/characters.
> 
> Kudos and comments are all very welcome!
> 
> Want to stay updated? Subscribe to the SERIES (not the single episode): <https://archiveofourown.org/series/1324328>

“Hello, Will”

Hannibal raises his head from his drawing as Will steps in his studio with a tense, tired face. He’s very curious to know what the reason may be for such behavior, but his voice is controlled and smooth as usual. Knowing Will, it won’t take long for Hannibal to find out.

“Abigail Hobbs killed Nick Boyle,” Will blurts out. It didn’t take long at all, bless him and his short fuse.

Hannibal hesitates briefly, before deciding the course of action.

“Yes, I know.” 

Hannibal is cavalier about the matter. He would like to know exactly how Will found out the truth but he’s not entirely surprised that this has happened: Will is special. He will always admire Will’s brilliance, even when it comes for his undoing. Will, on the other hand, is pissed, his voice still in control but ready to explode.

“Tell me why you know?” 

“I helped her dispose of the body.” 

Hannibal’s matter-of-fact attitude makes Will go mad. The words come out stilted, every single one of them a slap in Hannibal’s face. 

“Evidently not well enough.”

Hannibal strongly resents the accusation of being sloppy at his lifelong hobby, but unfortunately this is not the time for murderous pride and _you don’t know who you’re talking to_ attitude. There’s one thing he needs to know, first of all, because that may change his life entirely. And Will’s. 

“Have you told Jack Crawford?“

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was hoping it wasn’t true.”

Hannibal hesitates, one finger tapping over the gleaming scalpel laying on his desk: useful as a pencil sharpener, that’s the official pretext, or as an instrument of death. If no one knows but Will… well, his friend could have an accident, the kind where you quickly, mercifully bleed to death but your body is never recovered, none the wiser. What with his recent episodes of lost time, they would easily give reason for a sudden disappearance. Then there would be the grieving, and he would have no need to fake it at all, Hannibal thinks with a bitter pang of pain in his heart. All possibilities must be considered but this one is quickly discarded. Maybe there’s a way to play it so that another shared secret is something to bring them closer together, against an unfeeling world. As it should be.

“Now you know the truth,” Hannibal lies again, shameless.

“Do I?” Will’s incredulity runs deep.

“Everything you know about that night is true, except the end. Nicholas Boyle attacked us. Abigail’s only crime was to defend herself, and I lied about it.“

“Why?”

Hannibal stands. “You know why.” He scoffs, one hand in his pocket, the other extended to touch with one finger the polished surface of the desk. “Because Jack Crawford would hang her for what her father’s done and the world would burn Abigail in his place. That would be the story. That would be what Freddie Lounds writes.“

Will turns his back on Hannibal and moves to the window. He intently looks outside, into the darkness of Baltimore’s frigid winter. The darkness should be a promise of silence and rest before rebirth, instead for Will the shadows have become a nest of groveling terrors and garbled voices. And he’s so tired of feeling victimized by the darkness poisoning his mind. He feels possessed and displaced by an invisible invader, in his own mind, and he’s just tired of fighting against it.

Hannibal gets closer, clasps Will’s shoulder with his hand, lets his warmth seeps in, then speaks solemnly. 

“We are her fathers now. We have to serve her better than Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

The words resonate. Intricate lines shadow their faces, the pale light from outside transforming the texture of the curtains into tangled shapes, unreadable like the feelings that animate the two men.

Will stays silent for a bit, his eyes still lost in the wintry night outside the window, then a low, rumbling laughter slowly shakes his slender frame.

Hannibal freezes, his hand still on Will’s shoulder. Something is different in the air around them, like the chill of the outside world has invaded their room all of a sudden. Something has snapped inside Will Graham. 

“You’re overdoing it,” he says dryly. 

“What do you mean, Will?”

“The dramatics. You are overdoing it.”

Will turns slowly toward Hannibal, his chin low, his eyes dark and disquieting in the dim light.

“You fake interest pretty well. You know, when you have to listen to people going on and on and on about their inconsequential petty lives. And you are truly bored to death, but still you interact here and there, show interest and support. Decent eye contact. Suitable words. You’re pretty good at that. You must be bored so very often, poor thing.”

Hannibal loosens his grip on Will and slowly backs off, moving back toward his desk, putting the low sofa between them. He observes Will attentively, in silence: the man has the potential to surprise him and he uses it. That’s why he’s so interesting, after all. 

“But you aren’t bored when we’re together, are you, Doctor Lecter?”

“You have a brilliant mind and I enjoy you company very much, Will, you know that…”

Will rudely interrupts him.

“You talk such a big game. _We are her fathers now,”_ Will mocks Hannibal’s accent. “What would that make us to each other, by the way? _Husbands_?” His voice rises then cracks nervously.

Hannibal squints at Will, as if observing a rare butterfly just pinned for display.

“Your thoughts have taken a strange direction, Will. Are you alright?” 

“Am I? Probably not. Definitely not.”

Will laughs again, a soulless sound. He covers his eyes with trembling hands.

“You thought about using the scalpel on me, when I told you I knew about Boyle. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t understand? You underestimate me.”

Will, his observational skills and deductive abilities, working in ways akin to magic. Hannibal feels all warm inside, admiring his never ending brilliance. Now, if only he could be sure there’s no need to kill him…

“I think you are angry with me, rightly so, because you felt I betrayed the mutual trust we were building with our friendship. You must be tired, too, and you may see things that are not there. But I’m your friend. I would never harm you.”

“Wouldn’t you, Doctor Lecter? I don’t want to harm you either. Don’t take the scalpel from your desk, please. You don’t need a weapon. Don’t you trust me on that?” 

Will is uncharacteristically unflinching, his voice toneless and his eyes fixed on something that seems very far away, light years beyond Hannibal. 

Hannibal uses his therapy voice, still backing up towards the desk.

“I imagine you still have your sidearm with you, Will. Please don’t make any rash decisions in this vulnerable state.”

“Oh, that!” Will makes a theatrical gesture, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. Then he slowly opens his jacket, removes his P226 from the holster and releases the magazine from the gun. He puts the gun on the ground, kicks it away and pockets the magazine. “See? I do not want to cause you any irreparable harm, truly. I’m telling you the truth. A surprising thing to hear among these walls, I guess.”

Will moves a few steps to his left and Hannibal sidesteps in the opposite direction to maintain the low sofa between the two of them. Will inclines his head and grins.

“You are so fit, Hannibal. I couldn’t avoid noticing the shape of your body, or the way you move, in spite of all your old-timey three pieces. It’s wasted on a therapist, isn’t it? It’s truly the body of an apex predator. So fast and feline.”

Will stills for a beat, then speaks again.

“And I bet you have the mind that goes with it, uh?”

Hannibal wets his lips, intrigued by the development. Will has found something in the convoluted paths of his sick brain about the real Hannibal, the one beyond the veil, but how much does he truly know? And he hasn’t said a word of it to Crawford. Apparently. For now. Why?

“Who do you think I am, Will?”

Will doesn’t answer. He moves to his right but Hannibal is fast in keeping their distance and the sofa between them. Will cuts the chase by jumping over the sofa and in a moment is standing right in front of Hannibal - who doesn’t move this time, but squares his shoulders and looks down on Will with an arrogant little grin. He’s just a bit taller than Will, a bit broader - he’s comfortable with physical dominance and intimidation, though Will is surely not easy to impress. 

Will moves so quickly that Hannibal grasps what has happened only when he hears the unceremonious sound the open hand makes against his cheek and finds his own face violently thrown aside. Will has slapped him. No move to incapacitate him or cause real damage. Just a lightning fast, undignified slap to the face. Hannibal can feel the redness blooming on his skin, he imagines maybe later he will be able to even see the outline of Will’s finger. The thought stirs something deep in him and a growl from his throat.

After the strike Will steps back until his calves hit the sofa. Hannibal moves forward to catch him, but again Will is too quick, rolling back and down on the sofa, pushing Hannibal back with one foot against his chest. This time too the move has no intent to hurt - he could have kicked much harder, but he just wants to distance Hannibal. 

Will looks smug, standing in front of Hannibal on the other side of the sofa.

“Does it sting, Doctor Lecter?” he asks with a smirk.

“Indeed it stings, Will.” 

Hannibal grazes his hurt cheek tenderly with the tips of his fingers, licking his lips. Will follows the movement with hungry eyes and mirrors the lips licking. Hannibal keeps staring at him with some kind of seductive indolence. 

“You pretentious cunt.” Will chuckles and shakes his head. “You need someone to slap some sense into that fucked up head of yours. You really think you’re untouchable, don’t you?”

What an interesting turn of events: Hannibal feels his blood boiling and his cock getting thicker in his pants. If Will wants to play, he’s game.

“What a rude boy, Will,” Hannibal growls, “I will have to teach you some manners.” 

After a feint to his side, that Will precipitously mirrors, Hannibal springs over the sofa, landing beside a slightly unbalanced Will who now cannot move away from him fast enough. Hannibal grabs him by the shoulders and throws him hard against the wall. Will makes a breathless sound of surprise and pain when he hits the wall hard with his back, the loud thud echoing in the otherwise silent room, but having held Hannibal by an arm he can lever the other man against the wall too, while he tries to step away from Hannibal’s reach. He’s not fast enough though, so Hannibal grabs him by the hair on the nape of his neck and pulls him back and up wildly. Will cries a high pitched sound of pain that only makes Hannibal’s cock harder, then loses his footing and falls with his back against Hannibal.

Hannibal keeps a very tight hold of Will’s hair in his fist and with the other arm pulls Will flush to his chest, trying to still him. Instead of struggling, Will collapses on his legs and uses his dead weight to unbalance Hannibal and drag them both to the ground. Will’s obvious plan is to disentangle from Hannibal’s grip, but Hannibal doesn’t lose his hold and with a forceful thrust of his back nestles his body between Will’s legs as they fall. They end up both kneeling on the ground, Will’s thighs kept open wide by Hannibal’s legs behind him. Hannibal strains Will’s position by pulling further back his fistful of hair, so Will has to arch his back and neck backward as hard as he can, over Hannibal’s shoulder, breathing turned into a difficult and painful task. Hannibal celebrates this temporary victory by rutting violently his clothed erection against Will’s ass and snarling with bared teeth right by Will’s stretched, tempting throat. Will closes his eyes and winces, the position so uncomfortable he cannot even swallow much less talk.

“Are you going to behave now, Will, or-”

Hannibal cannot finish the sentence. Will uses his unrestricted arm it to grab back at Hannibal’s hair. He tugs with all his strength, rapidly turning his body to face the ground taking Hannibal down with him, forcing him to lose the grip on Will’s chest. But in spite of the pain and the torsion, Hannibal doesn’t release the grip on Will’s hair and reacts with a single sharp hit to his solar plexus with the heel of his free hand: Will is left breathless and struggling for a few seconds, letting go of Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal is quick in making good use of his advantage and he’s on his feet again, dragging Will on the ground toward the low sofa, now with both hands pulling him just by his hair.

Will emits one single pitiful wail while he’s being dragged. He scratches at Hannibal’s hands drawing blood but cannot dislodge them from his hair nor has any purchase with his feet to stand. 

Once they’re close to the sofa, Hannibal pulls up Will’s entire body weight by the hair in his fists, then smashes him down with a grunt, headfirst, hitting his face harshly against the seat of the piece of furniture. Blood seeps out of his nose, tarnishing the pale skin. Hannibal drops violently a knee in the middle of Will’s back, pinning him bent over the sofa, Will’s knees on the ground. Will struggles to breath and pleads for air with strangled sounds. Hannibal takes his time to remove the knee only to grab both of Will’s wrists, twisting his arms on his back in a painful position. Hannibal kneels on the floor behind Will, forcing his legs open with his knees. Will laments the pain in his arms, ungraciously twisted to immobilize him, but at least he can breathe again.

“You win, I guess,” Will says with a hoarse voice. There’s a flickering of mirth in his words. He’s trying to regulate his breathing, his skin is flushed, a sheen of sweat on his face. 

“You were very rude, Will,” Hannibal’s voice comes out raspy. 

“I noticed the fact disturbed you so, Doctor Lecter.” Will’s voice is dripping sarcasm. “Should I say I’m sorry? Should I beg you for my life?”

Hannibal adjusts Will’s wrists so that he can hold them both with just one hand, then grabs again Will by the hair and yanks his head back, over his shoulder. Will cries out in pain. Hannibal whispers in his ear, his voice almost tender.

“It should sound believable, to work.” Then he adds. “Do you really think I want you dead? Wouldn’t you be, by now - if I were who you say I am…”

Hannibal eases a bit the strain of Will’s neck, so he can speak. 

“If you don’t want me dead, Hannibal, then how do you want me?” Will croaks out.

Hannibal’s breath stutters so minutely. Tentatively he lets go of Will’s wrists and loosens a bit the grip in his hair. Will lets out a sigh of relief while moving tentatively his shoulders. Slowly, now that he can move a little, pushes his back closer against Hannibal, guiding his hands behind his back to rest on Lecter’s groin, where he finds Hannibal’s thick, solid boner.

“Because you do want me, don’t you?” Will doesn’t sound so sure of himself, now. “Or did you get hard just for the violence?” This thought hits him unpleasantly, a quiver in his voice.

Hannibal knows the mood swings and lack of control are due to the unchecked illness that is devouring Will and feels pity for him. Briefly. 

Will’s hands haven’t just stopped once they got to Hannibal’s crotch: Will fumbles blindly with Hannibal’s zip until he successfully pulls out the man’s hard cock, already sticky and wet. He spits in one of his hands and after a few tentative strokes, starts working in earnest to get Hannibal off, still unable to turn his head or his body, still immobilized in the awkward position by Hannibal's hand in his hair.

“It’s not the violence per se, no,” Hannibal murmurs in Will’s ear, holding him closer. He nuzzles his hair, slowly, breathing in the complex bouquet of flavors, detecting the dominant sharp top note of sexual arousal and the undeniable mawkish aftertaste of desperation. He instinctively closes his eyes, savors this violent intimacy with Will, the feverish warmth of his hands moving slavishly to please him. He gives an open mouthed kiss to Will’s temple, where he feels his accelerated heartbeat, then pulls back a little to give a better look at Will’s profile, his skin decorated with dainty splatters of blood, still upturned because of Hannibal’s grip in his hair: the man has closed his eyes and is biting his lips, a little frown demonstrates his concentration for the handjob he’s performing in such an awkward position. The only sounds in the room are their belabored breathing and the wet, lewd noises of Will’s hands servicing Hannibal. Hannibal commits all the details of the beautiful moment to memory, his first sexual intimacy with Will Graham, he’ll delight in it often, replaying every second of it.

Hannibal moves his free hand to the front of Will’s pants, and hums pleasantly at the confirmation that Will is hard too. He drags slowly the heel of his hand over Will’s clothed cock, follows the outline with his fingers, he does it again and again. Will’s breath hitches, he makes a tender, strangled sound, his hands trembling over Hannibal. He stutters his hips forward trying to catch more pressure but at this point Hannibal removes his hand, and Will frowns.

Though it may not be the most masterful handjob in the global history of handjobs, Hannibal truly appreciates its eagerness, and since he has plans forming in his mind for the rest of the evening, when he feels the tension in his muscles pooling up toward his orgasm, he doesn’t procrastinate: he adjusts Will’s face by pulling his hair so that at the same time that he comes all over his hands, he’s able to lick avidly the blood that has caked on Will’s skin after his face was smashed on the sofa, savoring its metallic taste. This combination of different sensations enhances greatly Hannibal’s pleasure, who grunts with unconcerned contentment against Will’s skin, while Will dutifully milks him dry and mutters, not entirely surprised nor disgusted, something that sounds very much like _you sick fuck_.

Once he feels his orgasm has been sufficiently seen through, Hannibal finally lets Will’s curls slip from his fist - Will’s head sagging forward with a sigh of relief. Hannibal tucks himself away, spins Will around like a doll, so that now the men face each other, on the floor, then he cleans patiently his come from Will’s hands with his monogrammed handkerchief. 

Will avoids eye contact and tries to scuttle away, put some distance between them, but he’s caged between Hannibal’s legs and the sofa at his back. This situation is obviously unsustainable: you don’t tell a serial killer that you know who they are and then… expect to get away with a handjob? That was never the plan. There was no plan, honestly, just rage and betrayal.

Hannibal lifts Will’s chin kindly, looking tenderly at his beaten face. 

“Let me take you home and put an ice pack on your nose to avoid the swelling. It’s not too late yet.”

“Sure, what will the other serial killers think if you show up with a less than pretty corpse, right?”

“Will, stop with this fixation. I like the world better with you alive in it,” Hannibal’s eyes flicker and he licks his lips. “I even owe you one… _kindness_.”

Will snorts and swats Hannibal’s hand away from his face. Rude, always rude.

“So, if I wanted to go… I could?”

“Of course, Will. But you clearly don’t feel well and you’re behaving erratically: let me take care of you, tonight. I don’t like the thought of you driving to Wolf Trap in these conditions.”

“Being wined and dined by Doctor Hannibal Lecter has turned into the thing that my nightmares are made of.”

Hannibal scoffs.

“Let yourself be wined, dined, bathed and bedded: you’ll feel better tomorrow. And I promise, your nightmares won’t have the gall to show up, when you're asleep safe and sound in my arms…”

Will remains silent for a while, searching for something in Hannibal’s eyes, usually impenetrable. They seem different, now. Amused and… almost tender. In the end, what does he have to lose? His sanity is gone, his life is hell and Hannibal could snap his neck anytime. Could have already, if he wanted. And Will is so very tired.

“Well.” Will cannot believe the words coming out of his mouth. ”Alright, then.” He even adds, quickly, “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Will. Just my duty…” Hannibal’s voice is soft, with more than a hint of hilarity. “…as a good husband.”

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, what to do next? I have no imagination and I’m already well beyond my limits. So many episodes to go… how???


End file.
